


Bell and the Dwarf-Dragon

by Lalaith_Yamainu



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Beauty and the Beast themes, Dragon Sickness, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Female Bilbo, Gold Sickness, Politics, Rule 63, Slow Burn, fairy tale, the dragon in dragon sickness is literal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2018-10-28 02:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10821624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalaith_Yamainu/pseuds/Lalaith_Yamainu
Summary: After the death of her father, Bluebell Baggins travels to Erebor to take her mother's place as Ambassador of the Shire. Having survived the Fell Winter, she is more determined than ever to secure an alliance.But she finds the King under the Mountain to be far larger, less hairy, and all together more... scaly than she expected.  Surely, she should have been told that the King Under the Mountain was a dragon?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bead/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Prayers to Broken Stone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205443) by [Avelera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera). 



All of Hobbiton agrees: Bluebell Baggins is a beauty, but a funny girl.

This is, of course, to be expected, being the daughter of Belladonna Baggins (nee Took), healer, adventurer, friend of Gandalf the Grey, youngest (and favorite) daughter of the Thain, and official ambassador of the Shire. Although she had been gone for nearly three years now, off representing the Shire to the dwarves of the Blue Mountains, Belladonna's escapades were still prime gossip. She had, after all, only last year crossed the Misty Mountains, a feat no hobbit had dared since the Wandering Days. That the journey had been necessary to procure an official alliance with Erebor (Prince Frerin of the Blue Mountains, having gladly entered into a informal trade agreement, but insisting that he was ultimately beholden to the King Under the Mountain, should the Shire wish for a more permanent alliance) gave her some excuse, but more than the horrific distance, she was mostly criticized for having left a family behind.

Not that Bungo Baggins was in any way handicapped by his wife's absence. He was, after all, quite a respectable and competent hobbit in his own right, and, after waving farewell to Belladonna, had carried on with visiting his tenants, overseeing his trade business, meeting with the Mayor to approve the season's social calendar, drawing his maps, and educating his daughter. He was a steady, solid sort of fellow, and if his love for the wild Belladonna still perplexed his fellows, enough time had passed since their wedding that the odd union had become a simple, accepted fact.

Despite her unusual background, Bluebell was well regarded by her peers. Tawny curls and green eyes, well formed feet and ample curves could be counted upon to overshadow any oddities such as a sharp wit and independent streak. If she read too many novels, well, it wasn't so many that it hurt her commendable cooking skills, or had affected her prize winning tomatoes. And if years passed with no ring on her finger, or even a single lad she seemed to favor, that was only to be expected when she had so very many suitors to choose from. And if she seemed indifferent to said suitors, no matter how handsome their curls or respectable their families... she was young. There was time. 

And so several years passed.

And the Fell Winter came.

Smials were buried under snow. Food stores ran out. Wolves and goblins crossed the Brandywine.

The Rangers came, but it was too little, too late.

So many deaths. From cold. From hunger. From sickness.

Bungo Baggins, in his position of Master of Bag End, had been generous with his stores. None of his tenants starved, though many sickened.

Including him.

And so, when the spring thaw came, Bluebell Baggins stood in a blue mourning dress at the side of a fresh grave. 

Belladonna, in gilded rooms at Erebor, shut herself away after receiving a raven, and did not emerge.

And King Thorin shifted his great bulk upon a pile of gold in the treasury, tail swishing through coins as he breathed a sigh of relief that the nattering hobbitess had ceased her interruptions of his time.

After all, a dragon king ruling over a mountain full of dwarves had more important things to do than concern himself with a tiny people on the other side of the world.


	2. Little Town full of Little People

Bluebell Baggins was Mistress of Bag End. 

This was a position of no small importance or responsibility, however temporary the position might be. And it was temporary, as she continued to remind the dozens of tenants she visited, who were nervous about having someone so young run the estate. After all, Bungo had been dead for months, and news sent to Belladonna weeks ago, and so it couldn't be too terribly long until she returned. No, Bluebell didn't know when that might be, and yes, her Grandfather was sending a replacement Ambassador. Of course, she didn't know who. She had plenty enough to do with helping put the Shire back together. 

The food from Rivendell and the Blue Mountains was still coming, and people were beginning to believe that it would continue to come. The planting had gone well, once the snow-melt floods had been drained away. Homes were being repaired, people were returning to their jobs. Children were once again journeying to their schoolhouses, traders preparing for the next faire, and the planning for Midsummer Party was well underway. Roads were clear, the post had resumed, gardens were growing. 

The dead had been buried. 

Most hobbits were still thin, their clothes hanging awkwardly on too small frames. Many were still sick, though more recovered every day. Nearly everyone was in mourning. The Rangers and Dwarves who had come to their aid had been set up in suddenly empty smials, and seemed happy to settle in for the time being, lending their strength to building and planting. The food at parties was perhaps a bit less spectacular than before. 

And yet. 

These were Hobbits, in tune with all that grows. Elves might fade, when struck by great sorrow. Dwarves hide away, men turn to infighting and war. Hobbits had no time for such nonsense. Life went on. 

And so, their clothes might hang a bit loosely, but the ladies of Hobbiton still donned their best, most colorful dresses for market day. Their husbands still wore dapper waistcoats to take tea with a friend and retire for a good smoke of Old Toby. Children roamed over pastures and fields, getting in everyone's way. Flowers graced every dinner table, silverware gleamed with polish, lads and lasses took evening walks and dogged chaperones; babies were born and weddings planned. 

And gossip was still the primary pastime. The youngest Chubb girl was studying to be a midwife. The Proudfoot family were taking the Stoutbarrel family to the Thain over a business deal gone bad. The blacksmith had been seen trading advice with some of the dwarves. And, most popular, Bluebell Baggins had more suitors than six months ago. It was only to be excpect, what with her father's death. After all, Bag end was an awfully large smial to be living in alone, and such a large estate would do better being run by multiple people. It was only practical. Many hands made light work. Families were the very foundation of society, and it was simply unacceptable to live alone. Bluebell had lost her parents, and so it was even more important for her to set down strong roots in her husband's family and the children they would have. 

But Bluebell seemed to be taking her time. She largely ignored the new suitors, preferring to take walks and share tea with those who had been casually calling on her for years. But none were permitted to present their suit in earnest. She used her increased work load to explain away her lack of interest in social calls, but the truth was, she simply had never found anyone who she could see herself sharing Bag End with; someone who understood and respected her, who encouraged her to be her best self while forgiving her flaws - someone to complement her weaknesses. In short, she wanted what Bungo and Belladonna had. Bluebell found it quite impossible to grow up in a home filled with such love and acceptance and then to marry a lad whose eyes unfocused when she described her maps, or one who hinted - however gently - that it was time to set her sights on more domestic matters than Elves and Rangers and Dwarves. 

(Indeed, one lad had been firmly escorted from Bag End and never invited again after implying that after her marriage it would be her husband overseeing her trade business. A strongly worded letter to his mother ensured that no gossip was created by the jilted suitor, and hopefully Bluebell pointing out the son's dreadful assumptions would allow his mother to correct them before inflicting them upon some poor girl who didn't have Bluebell's independence.)

So life went on in the Shire, and for Bluebell this meant visiting tenants, meeting with merchants, working in her garden, and waiting, waiting, waiting for word from her mother. 

\----

The message had come with a Raven. 

A great, black bird, nearly as tall as Bluebell herself. It sat upon her fence and gave her a look of such haughty disdain that she had to work very hard NOT to curtsy to it, like some blundering Chubb who met the Thain on the road by accident. 

"Bluebell Baggins?" It repeated imperiously, beady eyes examining her even as it held its leg (and attached letter) behind its body, as if it expected her to lunge for it. 

"At your service," she replied as politely as she could force herself to be, teeth gritted as she straightened the straw hat that had slid off her head during her tumble into her cabbages. One simply didn't see such great birds in the Shire. And to have it open it's great beak and SPEAK her name, well. All things considered, was it any wonder she had tumbled to the ground in a most improper heap, ankles in the air, skirts askew, and cabbage leaves in her hair?

Of course not.

The bird cocked its head, slightly disbelievingly. "Daughter of Ambassador Belladonna Baggins, daughter of Gerintious Took?"

At this, she stilled. It had been months since she had sent her mother word of Bungo's death, and had heard nothing in return. Post was slow, of course, when you had to wait for Rangers or trade caravans, but even so, she had expected to hear something weeks ago. The silence had worried her. Had the message been lost, or mislaid? Had Belladonna been prevented from responding? Was she returning herself instead of sending word? (This thought she tried to squash ruthlessly. Her mother was doing important work, and Bluebell was no fauntling, needing the comfort of a parent. Even if Bag End was so very awfully quiet and empty these days...)

At her confirming nod, the bird ruffled its feathers imperiously and gingerly extended its foot - and attached letter - toward her. She controlled herself enough not to snatch it, but did unroll it quickly there in the garden, rather than politely bidding the bird goodbye and retiring inside to read it. 

Perhaps the Raven was not the only one with ruffled feathers. 

But as she deciphers the hard, angular writing, her annoyance bled away into concern and she glanced up at the bird. "Will you remain for a reply?"

The bird nodded, and she turned and ran down the lane, wearing her gardening clothes, clutching the letter, and with cabbage leaves in her hair. 

She tore through Hobbiton, ignoring the curious shouts and scandalized gasps as she passed the shops and homes. She dodged carts and children alike, and skidded to a stop in front of the Mayor's office. Pausing for the barest moment to wipe the worst of the mud off her feet, she yanked open the door and strode pass the gobsmacked clerk into the back room. Inside, the Mayor sat behind his desk (covered in possible floral arrangements for Midsummer), while in front of it her grandfather, Thain of the Shire, sat with a calendar and date book. The two elderly hobbits turned to her in shock, as she gasped out heaving breathes, suddenly unable to speak. 

Old Took stood up. "Bluebell, child, whatever is the matter?" He glanced back at the Mayor. "Falgo, fetch us some tea will you?" He put his hands on her shoulders and guided her to sit down. She sat there, trembling, creasing the parchment between her hands. Eventually, she looked up to see her grandfather had taken the other chair and was calmly waiting for her to pull herself together. His kind, steady, familiar gaze settled her.

Closing her eyes again she took a deep breath and straightened, and when she opened her eyes she pulled the mantle of "Mistress of Bag End" around her like armor. 

Calmly (with only slightly shaky hands)she held out the parchment. 

"I received a message from Erebor. A certain Lord Balin writes that negotiations have halted, and requests that you send additional representatives from the Shire."

"Halted?" Old Took questioned mildly, but she saw the tightness of his eyes. She took another breath. 

"After Mum received word about Da, she shut herself in her rooms and hasn't come out since. Lord Balin spoke to her recently, and while he doesn't seem to understand exactly the gravity of what he saw..." Her throat closed up again, and she struggled to get the words out. Her grandfather gripped his walking stick tightly. "She's fading." 

Old Took closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Oh Belladonna, my lass." They sat in silence for a few minutes. The Mayor returned with a tea tray, and after unsuccessfully attempting conversation, withdrew to leave them alone again. 

"You know what we must do." Her grandfather prompted her, but she didn't, her mind had stilled and all she could see was herself, alone, rattling around Bag End alone, with both her parents under the ground. What else could there be? What other considerations could they have with Bungo dead in the ground and Belladonna dying in some far off land? Alone, away from home and family. 

"Bluebell."

She shook her head. 

"Bluebell, we have to think of the Shire."

What did the Shire matter without her family? 

"Bluebell, you must go and take her place. Soon, while she is still...." He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. 

She folded over and wept at the loss of her home. 

The Old Took roughly continued, "No one is better suited than you. You have the education, the experience with other races, and the dwarves have funny ideas about bloodlines. Being my granddaughter will give you a measure of protection." Her sniffles slowly quieted as he stroked her hair. "And perhaps," he added quietly, "seeing you again will be enough for her."

She looked up, wiping her eyes. "Do you think so?"

He smiled and nudged her chin with his thumb. "How could it not, my darling girl?"

She gave a breathless laugh, and tried to pull herself together. "Goodness, look at me. Weepy as a Boffin!" Embarrassment flushed her cheeks as she thought of the scene she had made, racing through town. In all her life, she had never made such a spectacle! Perhaps it would be easier to leave the Shire than face her neighbors again. 

\---

Bluebell sat at her desk, writing letters of instruction to her gardener about the Care of Bag End while she was gone. A knock sounded from the front door, and she hurried to answer it. 

Standing on her porch was a dwarf with a cheerful smile, a braided mustache, and a truly unique hat. He grinned at her, and bowed. "Bofur, ma'am, at your service."

With a silly smile and a regal nod, she returned the gesture. "Bluebell Baggins, at yours and your family's." She ushered him inside. "Boots off, if you please, and I've got elevensies ready for you." 

He sat on her mother's glory box and began unlacing. "I believe my favorite part of the Shire has to be Elevensies. Or Tea. Or second breakfast." She laughed as she showed him where the table was.

"So tell me lass, have you ever left the Shire before?" Bofur asked her as he nibbled on a scone. 

"Once, when I was a child. My parents and I spent a summer at Rivendell, working out trade details. They grow incredible kinds of wood there that we can't grow here, that are just perfect for carving."

"Oh, aye? I whittle some here and there..."

From there the conversation strayed into wood carving, comparing techniques and materials. Bluebell didn't carve herself, but Bungo had, and she had spent many an hour watching him turn firewood into treasures. Bofur, as it turned out, had a cousin who was a toy maker, and he frequently sent Bofur orders of small figurines to carve when he was on guard duty at the garrison. This led to a discussion of families and professions, and by the time an hour had passed Bluebell was quite comfortable with her new friend. 

Eventually, the conversation turned to the journey ahead. Bofur had made the trek many times, visiting his brother Bombur, who worked in the royal kitchens. She proudly showed him her map collection, and she traced out the route they would take. Although it was only a handspan on the map, trade caravans travel slowly, and the journey would last over a month. 

He cocked his head at her curiously. "Yer a fine lass. Begging yer pardon, but with the amount your grandfather is paying us to escort you, I imagined you'd be a soft handed ninny who hated travelin', and made out lives miserable."

She blushed hotly. "Well, some of that is for propriety's sake. An unmarried lady traveling alone would cause quite a few concerns and questions. But a lady with well paid chaperones... that is far more acceptable. But it also an issue of safety. You have contracted to be my guardians, and to put yourselves in harms way to defend me. I know dwarves are more..." She struggled to find a word that wasn't "aggressive" or "violent", "...martially inclined, but to a hobbit, that is no small thing. Especially in times like these." 

They sat quietly for a few minutes, before she dared to ask. "How long have you been in the Shire?"

Bofur didn't pretend to misunderstand her question. "I was one of the first here. The caravan I was traveling with got word that the Shire had been invaded, and asked for volunteers. I'd never been here, nor even seen a hobbit before, truth be told, but even someone like me knows that hobbits are peaceable folk. T'aint right for soft folks to be hurt by dark things." He looked up and saw her watering eyes. "Now, lass, don't be like that. It weren't nothin. I've been on much more dangerous campaigns, with much colder welcomes than the one you've given us dwarves here. It was an honor to defend such kind folk. Mahal made a strong, so it is only fair to defend those who are weak."

"Still, it means a great deal to us." She smiled wryly. "And don't thing you won't earn your money, battle or no. I can be a right hellion when I've not had enough sleep, I'm allergic to ponies, and I must carry a clean pocket handkerchief with me at all times!"

He wrinkled his forehead. "What's a handkerchief?" She gaped at him for a minute, before seeing the twinkle in his eye, and rolled her own.

"Goodness gracious, this is going to be quite the journey, isn't it?"

He nodded soberly, still fighting a smile. "Aye, such as you've never known."

At that, she quirked a smile. "You know, I begged to go with my mother when she left."

"Why didn't you?"

"I had only just come of age. My father wanted me to have a few years running he estate. My mother didn't want to leave my father alone. And I suspect my grandmother of convincing my grandfather that if I stayed home, I'd be more likely to wed a nice Hobbit lad who would keep me from wandering. Though since that clearly didn't stop my mother, I don't know what they were thinking. I was so angry."

"That they wanted you to get married?"

"That they wanted me to marry someone who would keep me from my dreams. I want to see the world, Bofur. I have ever since I was old enough to understand that my father's maps showed more than the Shire. But now..." she trailed off.

He looked sympathetic. "Now?'

"I don't know if I want to leave with Da gone. I can't imagine Bag End standing empty, with no one to read his books, or care for my garden, or use my mother's china. The idea of being on the road, while my home was occupied by someone else..." she paused, and stared off into the distance. "I suppose adventure isn't as appealing if you don't have someone waiting for you at home." She shook herself. "But what must be done, must be done. Someone needs to take Mum's place, and solidify the alliance. Mum wrote that Prince Frerin was very accommodating, but his brother, King Thorin, has been incredibly difficult. But she never said why." Bluebell glanced at him. "I don't suppose you know anything about that?"

He gave a casual shrug. "Dwarrow have always been wary of outsiders. Makes sense our king is too."

Which made sense, but there was something in his eyes, in the too casual set of his shoulders that brought to mind her mother's letters; so detailed about the sights she saw and the people she met, but remarkably reticent about what problems she was having with the foreign king. Bluebell had the distinct impression hat something was being kept from her. She muttered "I do wish we could stop in Rivendell." Elrond might know, and would certainly warn her.

Bofur laughed. "Dwarves and elves don't get along lass. It's better for everyone if we avoid each other." He patted her hand sympathetically. "You'll see your friends on the way back, I'm sure." 

Which hadn't been her concern, but she let it lie. Dwarrow were famous for their secrets, and she supposed she would just have to wait to discover this one. She saw Bofur to the door, and waved as she called goodbyes. Then she turned back inside to finish packing. She was leaving in the morning, after all, and she needed to be sure she had enough handkerchiefs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to work a Thorin scene in, but I couldn't quite make it fit. So you'll have to wait until next chapter to meet him. 
> 
> Out of curiosity, do you prefer frequent, short updates, or waiting longer for more substantial chapters?


	3. The Great Wide Somewhere

The journey to Erebor is long and hard. Bluebell had known it would be, but she had never realized the sheer scope of the world. Her maps had not prepared her for mountains so large she could see them days before she reached them, for rivers so wide she could barely see the edge, for roads so long they seemed to never end. She wasn't prepared for the saddle sores in tender places, for an aching back from the sway of her pony, for callouses to grow on her hands from gripping the reigns. Worst of all was the hunger. Although by no means was she starving, food was rationed on the road to the point that hunger was a constant presence. Likely, at any other time, the mild hunger pangs would have faded swiftly as her stomach adjusted to three meals a day, but coming so soon after famine, every pang sent a bolt of terror to Bluebell's heart. It became her habit to ride close to the quartermasters, so that she could glance to the wagons whenever it happened, and reassure herself that the rationing was a precaution, not a sign of dwindling supplies. The dwarves were kind enough to pretend she simply enjoyed swapping recipes with the cooks. 

Still, it wasn't all bad. The sights were dizzying for someone who had spent her life amongst gentle hills and burbling streams. She loved when they stopped at cities to resupply, the press of people from all over the world, all walks of life, wrapping around her like characters from her mother's stories. The smell of foreign spices, the feel of silks under her fingers, the babble of languages she has yet to learn, all awaken in her a wonder she thought lost; it had only been buried under the weight of loneliness, and responsibility, and hunger. 

The world was so much bigger than her books and maps. 

The dwarves are friendly and cheerful, if secretive. Questions about the clothing, their culture or families are immediately, if kindly, shut down. And Khuzdul is an endless frustration to her. She has a gift for languages, and normally can pick them up just by listening, but with Khuzdul she has no context. Their sacred language is used to discuss secret thing, not "Pass me that saddlebag," or "This rain is ruining my coat". Still, she has picked up a few words, even if she's not entirely sure what they mean. It's a puzzle, one that distracts her on long days. 

She makes good friends. Bofur is a joy, with his jovial manner and dirty songs. He introduces her to his cousin Bifue, a solitary, quiet dwarf, who shares her love of flowers. They spend many an hour discussing the blooms they pass and comparing them to more familiar flora in the west. He's the one who introduces her to Ori, a Royal Scribe apprenticed to Balin, the Minister who had written to her. She was surprised to discover that he spoke a little Sindarin, and she happily agreed to help him with his verb tenses and pronunciations. In return, he leant her some of his books in Westron about the history of the dwarrow. It was, perhaps, heavily edited, as it might be read by any being, but it was still far more detailed than anything written by elves or men. 

The stories were epics, genealogies, and histories. Some were page turners, some were so dry she needed to drink water afterwards. They seemed straightforward, but she had been trained to read between the lines, to look for the hidden motive behind people's actions. From the stories, Bluebell learned of the dwarves fierce pride in the works of their hands, their loyalty to their families and clans, and their grudge against the rest of the world. They saw themselves as unwanted and unloved by all but their creator, and so mistrusted others, and yet... and yet, they had come to the Shire's aid. They had provided her people with food, and protection. 

Maybe it was just the dwarves of the Blue Mountains who were so open to others. King Thorin had entertained the idea of an alliance - or at least hosted an official diplomat for the purpose - but her mother had spent over a year in Erebor, with nothing to show for it. If he was so against the idea, why would didn't he just send her home?

Bluebell often lay awake at night, thinking about her mother. What she would find, what conditions she would be in. Whether she was still alive. To distract herself, she tried to imagine King Thorin. In her mind's eye he was a great hulking figure with a long white beard, jewelry dripping from his fingers. She wondered whether he had visited Belladonna, or whether he even cared that she was ill. She tried to plan what she would say to him to convince him to create an alliance, but it was hard to imagine anything her mother wouldn't have already said or done. 

After all, what could she possibly add to the negotiations?

The nearer they draw to Erebor, the more excited the dwarves get. Well, other than Bofur and Ori. They seem to get increasingly nervous, giving her long glances and having hushed arguments in Khuzdul, gesturing wildly to her. Bifur seems rather placid, shrugging when she asks what's wrong with them.

"They worry too much about tomorrow," is all he'll say, which is endlessly frustrating to her.

Finally, she can bear it no longer, cultural secrets be damned. This clearly has something to do with her, something that is making her friends worried. She has to know. Bluebell spends a whole day debating whether to target Bofur or Ori for her questions. Bofur is less bothered about her knowing secrets, and has told her many things he probably shouldn't have. But behind that jovial smile is a core of steel, and she knows that if he was set to keep a secret, she would have a hard time praying it out. Ori, on the other hand, while happy to share any knowledge freely (well, relatively) available to non-dwarves, he is easily flustered, and tends to run and hide when she treads too close to topics he knows he shouldn't tell her.

So, the friend more likely to tell her of his own free will, but may refuse out of a crisis of conscience, or the friend who will almost certainly crack and tell her if she corners him? Of course, if she starts with Bofur, and it doesn't work, he would almost certainly warn Ori. Conversely, Ori was unlikely to tattle on a fellow scholar for asking questions, however inappropriate those questions were. 

Ori it is. 

She waits until the next evening, when most of the camp is busy setting up tents or caring for animals. Ori is sitting off to the side, sketching on a rock. She sits next to him, leaning over slightly to watch over his shoulder as he traces the gentle swoops of the valley and the harsh peaks of the mountains. He shifts slightly to accommodate her, and she watches him silently for a few minutes.

"What are you hiding about Erebor?" She asks suddenly, immediately feeling guilty when his hand jerks, spilling ink. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry!" She frets, reaching over to help mop it up before it ruins the drawing. His hand dangles to the side, face bright red as sputters at her.

"What... what makes you think we're hiding anything??" He begins hastily gathering his things. Bluebell merely raises her eyebrow at him. 

"All the whispered conversations in Khuzdul?"

"Dwarrow are a secretive race!" Ori protests. She concedes that point with a nod, but continues.

"When my two dearest friends frequently speak in hushed, worried tones,while glancing at me ever few seconds, it's hard not to be concerned. Dwarves have secrets, which I understand and respect, but pardon me for saying that it seems that whatever you two discuss concerns me particularly, and that, I have a right to know."

Ori seems to deflate. "It's not a secret we're keeping from you, it's just something that... we think would be better to see in person." She cocked an eyebrow at that, and he continued, "We've just been discussing how best to prepare you."

Bluebell sighed. "I see I'll have to speak to Bofur after all." Ori looked relieved. 

Bofur was easy to find, helping a family mend their broken tent poles. She sat down next to them, and began sewing the rips and tears in the fabric with one of the children. 

When they finish, he chats for a few moments, then walks to the edge of camp, gesturing her to follow. "What did Ori say?"

She doesn't bother to pretend not to know what he's talking about. "That it's something I need to see in person. That you want to prepare me."

He nods, staring at the sky for a few moments. "What do you know about Smaug?"

She blinks. "Chief test Calamity of our age? Came down from the north to attack Erebor and Dale, greedy for their wealth, and was only defeated by a black arrow shot by Lord Girion? Near two hundred years ago?"

"Dwarrow live longer than men and hobbits, lass. There's many a dwarf alive now that remembers that day." He seems sad, and Bluebell wonders if he was there, but can't find a polite way to ask. After a few moments of silence, she opens her mouth.

"What does Smaug have to do with you whispering? 

He looks her in the eye. "Many dwarrow died that day. Soldiers and dams and babes. The mountain was damaged - it took decades to repair. Dale blamed Erebor and wanted recompense for killing the dragon. Said if it weren't for the greed of dwarves, he'd have stayed in the north." Something catches in his throat, and she puts her hand on his arm comfortingly. "Dwarrow - our Kings especially- had to make some hard decisions. About how to protect ourselves. How to keep it from happening again. The mountain changed on that day, and not all the changes are comfortable. But it's what keeps us safe." He looked her in the eye. "When ye reach the mountain, be careful not to judge what you don't understand."

And with that not so comforting statement, he refused to say more. Nor would Ori, now that he viewed Bofur as having said all there needed to be said.

So they traveled, and the mountain grew closer, and she wondered what was waiting for her.

 

***

Erebor is dizzyingly huge. She nearly gets lost, craning her head back to stare at the vaulted ceilings, instead of following Bofur and Ori through the crowd. They pass through markets, shops, and roads. They passed blacksmiths and singers, and bright murals. She had never seen so much art in her life. There are gemstones imbedded in the walls, precious metals in the floor, and so many chandeliers she could forget she wasn't under the sun. The people seemed happy and healthy as they bustled about their lives. She looks for the damage Bofur had described, the hard choices that had to be made, and she finds nothing. There plenty of armed guard about, but Bluebell has no idea how many there should be for a city this size in a Dwarf Kingdom. The citizens, at least, don't seem concerned by all the weapons, and pay the guard little mind. Indeed, as she looks closer she sees that many of the adults are carrying weapons themselves; swords hanging in scabbards, great axes on their backs, and knives displayed on the outside of their boots all seem to be as fashionable as jeweled doublets and fine golden chains woven through beards.

Bluebell gives Ori and Bofur hugs when they deliver her to the palace, extracting a promise from them to come and visit her before she leaves. They stay and watch her disappear into the corridors, following a retinue of servants who hardly speak a word. At last, they enter what seems to be the guest chambers, given the mix of dwarf and Man sized doors, where they leave her standing before a door with a beautiful yellow and green banner hanging over it. She takes a deep breath, clutches her bag, and opens the door. 

****

Bluebell stood at the doorway, staring into the room. Her eye was completely focused on a single figure sitting in a chair by the fire, hunched and drawn against a cold no one else could feel. Her hair was far grayer, hanging limp around her face, which was lined with sorrow, rather than laughter. Her hands lay idle in her lap, where before they had always been busy - knitting, cooking, writing, whatever caught her fancy. She was dressed only in her nightgown and housecoat, though a blanket had been placed over her lap.

Bluebell didn't recognize her. 

What had happened to the lively, vivacious, brilliant woman who she called mother? Belladonna hardly ever sat still, preferring to move constantly around the room, drawing all to her like the gravity of some great star.

"Mama?" She whispers, and Belladonna turns to her.

"Oh, my baby!" She croaks, reaching a wizened hand out. Bluebell runs across the room and throws herself at her mother's feet, burying her tears in a warm lap. Belladonna strokes her hair, murmuring to herself. They stay that way for a long, long time.

Eventually, though, Bluebell comes to the end of her tears, and her breathing slows. After a few minutes of silence, Belladonna speaks.

"How did you know?" She asks.

Bluebell answers without looking up. "Lord Balin wrote me. He didn't say what exactly was wrong, but it was obvious enough. Grandfather sent me at once." Belladonna says nothing, and Bluebell continues. "Why did you just come home, mama? We could have sent someone else." She looks up at the strange face, so different from the one she knows.

Belladonna looks away. "King Thorin is... difficult. I didn't want to erase the progress I had made. And then I grew weak enough that it made it difficult to leave my rooms, and the negotiations ground to a halt."

Bluebell stared. "Do you mean to tell me he never came to see you?"

Her mother shrugged. "He's very busy."

"But it's been months! That is simply- he - ugh! I'm going to give him a piece of my mind -"

"Don't you dare!" Belladonna snapped, eyes flashing, bringing life back to her face. "He's the King of an incredibly powerful Kingdom, one which we need, and you WILL be polite!"

Bluebell glared at her mother, but didn't have the energy to fight. "Very well, mama. Let me brush your hair?" She walked over to the dressing table and picked up a golden brush she didn't recognize. Belladonna eyed her suspiciously, but turned and tiled her head back anyway.

"Tell me about your journey."

So Bluebell began to brush her hair, like her own had been brushed as a child, and told her about the caravan, and the mountains, and Ori and Bofur and the little boy who liked to sing at the campfire, and slowly her mother drifted to sleep, and she crept away.

***

Bluebell storms out of her mother's chambers and turns to the nearest guard. "I demand to see King Thorin immediately!"

The guards shuffle uncomfortably, glancing at one another. The shorter one coughs, and offers meekly, "Begging your pardon, m'Lady, but the King doesn't take visitors." 

She arches an eyebrow at him. "I am no visitor. Due to my mother's declining health, i am now the official ambassador from the Shire, by ordered the Thain. I DEMAND to speak to your King in order to determine what has been delaying the negotiations while my mother's health deteriorates!"

Steps sound behind her, and she whirls to see an old dwarf with a long beard and jeweled collars on his red robes. He bows to her. "Balin, son of Fundin, Advisor to King Thorin, at your service." She spots a nervous looking Ori behind him. 

"Bluebell Baggins, daughter of Belladonna Took, Ambassador of the Shire, at yours and your families." She takes care to offer her most proper curtsy, then raises up and says, "Will you be taking me to the king?"

Balin nods, and asks, in a too casual voice, "Did you have an enjoyable reunion with your mother?" He turns and begins walking, gesturing for her to follow. She scrambles to keep up.

"Enjoyable? Not really. I intend to finish this as quickly as possible, and get her back home where she can recover properly."

There is silence for a long time, as they lead her through cavernous halls, deep into the mountain. She supposes that it's the safest place for a king to be, and indeed, the number of people wearing regular clothes slowly tapers off until she is surrounded by people in uniform - guards, scribes, cleaners, and who knows what else. The corridors grow larger, and the doors more imposing. But for all that, her surrounding get plainer, rather than richer as she nears the King. Gem studded walls turn into murals, then tapestries, then bare stone. Statues grow smaller, then disappear, leaving scarred floor behind. Brilliant chandeliers turn to lanterns, then torches. She almost feels as if she's being led into a dungeon. She tries, and fails, to find a polite way of asking, and chooses to remain silent, counting corridors and turns in the off chance she has to make her way back on her own. 

Finally, they come to a great pair of doors, the rock bare, but veined with gold. Balin gestures her forward, and the guards hold open the doors. 

She stepped into the chamber, squinting at the shadows. The doors clanged shut behind her, and she suppressed a wince, tilting her chin up, and marching forward toward where she assumed the throne was. 

"King Thorin! I demand that you speak with me at once!"

She heard a strange rasping sound, and saw something shifting in the darkness. A voice, deep and dark, answered her. "Who are you to demand things of the King Under the Mountain?"

She thrust her shoulders back, and stood firm. "I am Bluebell Baggins, Ambassador of the Shire, sent by the Thain-"

"I have an Ambassador of the Shire." While she sputtered at his rudeness, he continued, "I prefer her over you. She doesn't bother me in my solace." A huff, and the torches flared, blinding her for a moment, before dimming again.

"She doesn't bother you because she is gravely ill! She must return to the Shire at once!"

"Then take her and begone, and disturb me no more with talk of far off lands."

At that, her teeth gritted. "We can't leave until the negotiations are complete, so if you would just sign the treaty..." 

A laugh that sent shivers down her spine. "And what would you know of treaties? A child like you has no business-"

Outraged, she cut him off. " I am no child! I am Bluebell Baggins of the Shire, and I demand that you speak to me face to face! My mother is ill, and-"

"Belladonna is your mother?" There was a hesitance to the voice,now, though she was to angry and tired to pay it any mind.

"Yes, she is, and I would like to get her home, now if you would just come out and face me, so we can get on with business, and I'll... be..."

A great shape moved out of the shadows.

Bluebell gaped at the creature that towered over her.

Golden scales glimmered in the firelight. 

Teeth as long as her hand gleamed as he grinned at her silence.

Wings shifted along the ground, dragging huge tracts in the dust.

Dragon. 

Dragon.

She was talking to a dragon.

"Is this your first time seeing a... King?" He asked, delighting in her fear. 

At the humor in his voice, her patience snapped, and she scoffed at him. "Perhaps, but I thought you would be taller. Smaug was reported to be-"

The great beast whirled at her, fire flashing out of his mouth. "What do you know of Smaug the Great? You're a long way from home, Little Halfling, and the world owes you nothing. Take your mother and leave my kingdom, and do not bother me again!"

"I will NOT leave until the treaty is complete! I have been sent by the Thain-"

"GET OUT!!!!" And a flame burst from his jaws, licking at her heels as she ran from the room, nearly colliding into Balin, who steadied her while she hopped in place, checking to make sure her foot hair hadn't been singed. A pair of guards slammed the doors shut, but she could still hear King Thorin crashing about in the chambers. 

"Honestly, the NERVE of him! Trying to set me on fire without so much as introducing himself first!" The dwarves looked at her as if she was mad, but she was too busy straightening her clothes and trying to calm her racing heart to pay them much mind. 

"Shall I order preparations for your journey home?" Balin's voice was dry, formal, and resigned.

"Of course not!" She snapped, to his and the guards surprise, "I said I wasn't leaving until the treaty was signed, and a Biggins sticks by her word!" She paused, musing, "I'll have to send mother ahead now, and just follow as soon as I am able."

Balin broke out into a wide grin under his snowy beard. "Aye, my lady, as you say. I'll send someone to help you pack her rooms up, and arrange an honor guard to accompany her. I assume you wish to stay in her rooms. Will there be anything else?"

She shook her head, turning to walk back to the guest rooms, when suddenly the corridor echoed with a rumble. It was no Dragon King this time, though, but a beast much more difficult to satisfy.

Her stomach.

She turned back. "Actually, sirs, if one of you could direct me to the kitchens?"

Balin ignored the guffaws of the guards to bow. "We live to serve."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Thorin isn't a full size dragon - he's only about ten feet tall. He still towers over a four foot Bluebell, though.
> 
> Y'all, this chapter kicked my butt. Part of the problem is that I was busy moving to a new city, but for some reason I could not get these scenes to come out. I was reduced to writing just a sentence or two at a time, before having to go do something else.
> 
> Hopefully the next chapter will be up next week, assuming I don't have the same problem. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> If you notice any mistakes, please let me know.


	4. Wine's Been Poured (Thank the Lord)

Bluebell sat to the side of the great expansive throne room, flipping idly through a book as she listened to the dwarrow bicker before their king. In the weeks since her mother had left, she had made a fair headway through all the books in Westron the library contained. It wasn't as if they were likely to have any books in Sindarin, and she was forbidden from learning khuzdul, so, the librarian argued, what was even the point of her borrowing a book in the dwarvish tongue?

She had discovered quickly that, as a non dwarf diplomat, she was in a rather tight spot. Most of the mountain frequented by the nobles was forbidden to non dwarves, while as a noble herself, it was seen as unseemly for her to journey anywhere below her station. Her attempts to work in the kitchens had been met with horror. Wandering through the common streets had gotten her stopped by local guards, who eventually spluttered that she had wandered into the "professional companion" district.  
She hadn't stopped blushing for hours afterwards. 

The galleries were beautiful, but after a while, all the mathoms started to blur together, and she wasn't sure about which stories the murals depicted. She was particularly well read in her histories, it was true, but those had all been through the viewpoint of Men and Elves (Hobbits, of course, preferred to stay out of such things, their main contribution to their lieges being small scouting parties that were nearly invisible to big folk, and mounds of food to keep hungry soldiers marching).

The stories were different from the Dwarves point of view. She had managed to get a few Dwarven books from a rather disreputable trader several years ago, and had hoarded the difference in perspective. They had opened her eyes to conflicts and resolutions and problems and solutions and stories that she had never thought of before. But the books had been small, summaries meant for the Man or Elf scholar who felt duty bound to document all sides of a story. As such, they had been thoroughly edited of any cultural secrets or shames that the dwarrow author had thought best to keep among his or her own people. 

So she could be reasonably sure that the mural in the corridor to the market was a depiction of Durin and the six other Fathers meeting, and the one near the royal apartments might show Thanad the Brave rescuing her whole family from a curse, but did the one to the dining hall show the Feast of Seven Springs, or the Reconciliation of Monird and Brenua? Was it Princess Landi or General Burna that looked down on her as she dressed each morning? It was very vexing to be surrounded by such a wealth of new information and not be able to ask. 

So she had carried stacks of books to her rooms to work through during the long hours she waited to be summoned by the King. And when that never happened, she hauled them with her to entertain her during the long hours she sat outside his receiving rooms, waiting for him to admit her. And when THAT never happened, she took them with her to the open sessions of court where anyone, rich or poor, could go before the King and ask for aid or justice or wisdom. 

And so she spent her days, reading her books, chatting with the dwarves who came to seek the king's aide. Mostly, she was ignored. Often times the proceedings took place in Khuzdul, and although the King was always curled around the great throne, he rarely spoke. One of his advisors usually gave the decree. She supposed, however, that even without speaking, a great smoking dragon led to the petitioners accepting judgments without arguing or questioning. She had never once seen anyone refuse or argue the verdict, only hasty and deep bows, and words of gratitude and praise. 

Slowly, as she began to better understand dwarven law, she began to develop an opinion on matters. 

Dwarrow law was both simple, and complex. There was heavy class stratification that made civil disputes a mass of labyrinthine rules and customs. But when it came to criminal law, the law was refreshingly clear - crimes and punishments had been laid out by the Seven Fathers, and once guilt was established, every dwarf from the lowest peasant to the highest prince was subject to the law. It was refreshingly egalitarian compared to the Shire, where in theory everyone was equal in status, in reality a Hobbit’s station had a great deal to do with the outcome of any legal action. Of course, such legal actions generally involved land disputes or making sure services provided were paid their fair due. It had been an Age since there had been a murder in the Shire, hundreds of years since a rape, and property theft was difficult when everyone knew what everybody else owned.

Still, while some of the intricacies of dwarrow culture eluded her, she was a merchant’s daughter, and she knew damn well what Lord Feni was trying to accomplish by asking for an exemption to trade taxes on his wheat shipment, and she couldn’t hide the disgust on her face when it was granted with hardly any explanation. She sniffed disparagingly, and turned back to her book when a rumbling voice echoed out, stilling the room.

“You disagree with our Judgment, Ambassador?” Looking up, she found herself pinned by the gaze of large, toothed predator. The entire room was staring at her in her little corner, and she tried not to notice had those near her had discreetly shuffled away.

Swallowing the toad in her throat, she replied, “Lord Feni claims that Lord Selimi of the Iron Hills is unable to pay a fair tax due to his wheat crops being stricken by blight. But two weeks ago, Lord Selimi sent a missive saying he had an excess of rye grains, and wished to sell them to you for a discount. Not only would someone who had a bad harvest of wheat be unlikely to give a discount on his rye, but wheat and rye are related. If the wheat was struck by a blight, then the rye should have been to. The only way it is not is if his fields are very far apart - unlikely, given that he is the main farmer of the Iron Hills, or if he is passing on someone else’s crop as his own.”  
The dragon’s eyes stared at her, a single waft of smoke trailing up from one nostril.

“In fact, I think it more likely that the rye was struck, and that he is trying to send what little he could save to you, since everyone in the Iron Hills would have heard of the blight, and been wary of buying contaminated grain. At such a distance, we might not have heard of it here, were more likely to blame any defects on the trials of transport, or would attribute the sickness to other causes than a single shipment of grain distributed through the mountain.”

She was annoyed to note that some of the dwarfs nearby had their mouths hanging open at this. Honestly. Lord Feni, however, was turning a whole rainbow of colors, from purple to puce, in what she supposed were anger and fear.

“And what do you suppose I should do, since you seem to know so much about trade and grains, little farmer?” The king huffed in amusement.

“Firstly, inform Lord Dain of what is going on in his markets, in accordance with the Trade Laws and Laws of Good Conduct, which you yourself quoted only two days ago. Let him deal with punishment for Lord Selimi, since he is more likely to find more infractions, as well as avoiding a formal Parley between Kingdoms that you were trying to avoid with the Blue Mountains.”

There was an audible gasp at this, and she grimaced, thinking it probably wasn’t very politic to point out that a King was trying to avoid diplomacy.

The great dragon’s eyes narrowed. “Leave us!” 

She saw the guards quietly herding Lord Feni with them. There was a hurried shuffle as dwarfs struggled to leave quickly, likely trying to avoid any demonstrations of temper the King would impose on the tiny, foreign female. One youth she saw was nearly vibrating with nerves.

Well, Baggins were made of sterner stuff than that, and so Bluebell forced herself to take measured steps as she gathered her belongings to leave.

“Not you, Ambassador,” Thorin murmured, and she stilled, arms full of books, “You and I still have words to exchange.”

And so they stared at one another across the hall as it slowly emptied. Balin was speaking in the dragons ear, but seemed to be ignored, and finally he walked away as well, turning back to give her an encouraging look, before the great doors closed.

 

After the room had cleared, Bluebell walked slowly across the floor to where the king was curled around his throne, watching her. A few moments passed as they stared at each other, small Hobbit and great Dragon. Finally, Thorin spoke.

“You have been paying attention in court.” He observed, tilting his head at her. She resisted the urge to shuffle her feet.

“It seemed prudent to learn the lay of the land, as it were. Things here are very… different from the Shire, and if I am to be an Ambassador then I must do my utmost to understand both cultures.”

The dragon’s tail swished lazily, and she forced herself to remain still and not jump away when it moved closer. “Your mother seemed to have no interest in our ways,” he mused, to her surprise. “She hardly ever came to court, only when the leaf-eaters were visiting. She is quite fluent in Sindarin.”

“Yes,” Bluebell answered uncertainly, “she spent time at Rivendell before she married my father.” He snorted, smoke curling up towards the ceiling, as she continued, “She was named Elf Friend for helping untangle an ancient riddle.”

“The Elves give such titles away too frivolously. Answering a mere riddle would never grant a being the honor of ‘dwarrow friend’, but then, we value our friendships as great treasure, while the faithless wastrels pretend to be friends to all, but fail to follow through as true friends should.” His tail was now swishing agitatedly, and his eyes seemed to glow.

“How would someone gain the title of dwarrow-friend?” She ventured, thinking that some feat or other should be more achievable than sitting in court day after day in the hopes that something would happen.

Thorin rumbled a laugh. “The only beings who have achieved such a title did it by saving the life of a member of the royal family.”

Bluebell sighed. “I don’t suppose you are in danger of wasting away with a desire to eat a good Shire meal? Rescuing you from starvation with my grandfather’s cherry pie is the only service I can imagine being able to offer.”

At that, Thorin stilled, and tilted his head. “What makes you think I eat cherry pie?” Before she could answer such a preposterous question - surely even a great lizard like him could appreciate a thin buttered crust and sweet berries?? - he continued, “Perhaps I eat maidens, like the great dragons of stories.” He grinned, showing the great teeth that gleamed sharply in the light.

Well.

“While I imagine I would make a far better than meal than a dwarrow - I have far less hair for one - if your intention this entire time has been to eat me, I rather think that you should have done so at our first meeting, rather than wasting both our times with all of this waiting and delaying. Now, if you would be so kind, should you choose not to eat me, can we please discuss the matter for which I have traveled so far?” And she retrieved a copy of the treaty from within her skirts with a flair, allowing the long parchment to unfold to the ground. “In fact, I believe that trade with the Shire would give you a much better price on barrels of wheat, than Lord Selimi from the Iron Hills.”

“Unfortunatly,” he purred, “All treats and documents must be in Khuzdul to be ratified. It is an ancient law, and one which I must uphold.” Before she could wilt at another obstacle, he called out, “Balin!”

The great doors opened behind her, and Balin hurried into the room. “Yes, your Majesty?”

Not even bothering to look at her, Thorin ordered, “Take Ambassador Baggins to the Library, and inform Master Ori that he is to begin schooling her in our language.” Looking back down, he continued in a surprisingly soft voice, “Perhaps learning our language will aide you in your quest to understand the epics of Belishme.”

With a jolt, she looked down at the book in her hand, which was indeed the epic of Belishme (or at least, what she suspected was a poor translation of the epics). Without another word, the King turned and left the room, tail swishing behind him. 

“My lady?” Balin murmured behind her, and she followed him, through the halls, furiously trying to figure out what she had possibly done to earn such an honor, only to be broken out of her reverie when she stepped into the library. While Balin and Ori were talking in low voices, she could only stare at the shelves and shelves of books she would now be allowed to read.

With a grin, she turned to Balin - “I need a kitchen. I have thank you cookies to bake. Do you think King Thorin would prefer ginger snap, or oatmeal raisin?” And laughed at his gobsmacked expression, running to a shelf and pulling down a beautiful tome she had been eying she she had come to Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been a full year since I posted. My life has been a whirlwind, but I didn't think I had gotten THAT far out order! 
> 
> Thankfully the army gave my husband back, so I will have more time to write. Thank you all for your patience!

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I am doing, but I can't get this story out of my head, so here you are. I have it all mapped out. Comments, criticisms, and suggestions are more than welcome!


End file.
